And shows Den the datura he has grown,
Its bell-like blooms white as a wordless page,
With the Salvia Divinorum which
Is Den’s. It’s made clear in Fat Kenny’s pitch
That while they’ll both share the diviner’s sage
The Angels’ Trumpets are for him alone.
“I’ve got a greater tolerance, you see.
I’ll chew the salvia with you then smoke
The other later.” They both masticate
The leaves. “Hold it beneath your tongue, then wait.”
So, leaving the sublingual wad to soak,
Den gulps and swallows apprehensively.
He pales, as if at the approach of some
Fierce, underlying pandemonium.
Time squirms, its measure lost beyond recall
So that how long he’s sat he does not know.
The dismal room has undergone no change
Save that its cluttered details now seem strange
To him, and meanwhile simmering below
His tongue the bitter vegetable ball
Steeps in his spittle, makes green venom run
Into his belly, past the teeth and gums
To curdle in his bloodstream, bowel and bone.
Den writhes and struggles to suppress a moan
As he by subtle increment becomes
Uncomfortable in his own skeleton
And catapults up from his seat to pace
The room, thus to assuage his restlessness
While Kenny shifts his outsized infant bulk
Upon the sofa, clearly in a sulk